Obsession
by Joodiff
Summary: Obsession comes in many forms, some more dangerous than others... and sometimes real threats pass unnoticed. Boyd/Grace, post S7 "Pieta". Complete. T for language and content. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

_**Dedication:**_ _for all my lovely WtD friends for being good and supportive people._

* * *

**Obsession**

**By Joodiff**

"_Without obsession, life is nothing." – _John Waters

* * *

There's no mystery at all about why they're already running more than a little late, of course – it's nothing to do with tardiness and everything to do with still being in the first flush of love and lust – but it's resulted in a certain amount of rapid multi-tasking and a not altogether light-hearted amount of competition for the bathroom. All's fair in love and war, so they say, but Grace is still faintly smarting over the forcible and distinctly ungentlemanly commandeering of the big mirror over the basin, and that's the primary reason for her repeated and unsympathetic jostling as Boyd tries his best to shave without either cutting himself or accidentally vandalising the faultless edges of his goatee beard. They don't have this problem at his house – two bathrooms, one conveniently _en suite_ – but during the working week he tends to stay with her. Either that, or they part company late in the evenings and both end up wondering why they're sleeping alone on opposite sides of the Thames.

The strategic deployment of sharp elbows allows Grace to gain a little ground at the basin, but it provokes a predictable amount of growling displeasure from her ever-irritable partner, and for a few minutes they squabble pointlessly over just whose fault it is that they're so far behind schedule. There's no definitive answer to that particular question – they're both equally guilty. But they are also both firmly of the opinion that even at their age – _especially_ at their age – there's quite a lot to be said for starting the day with a quick, heated tumble under the sheets, and that's why the petty squabbling doesn't immediately escalate into something far more serious. Momentarily distracted by the unusual but very pleasing vision of an attractive, semi-naked male confidently shaving in her bathroom mirror, Grace briefly lets her thoughts wander before determinedly turning her attention to the day ahead. She says, "Rachel Cooper's coming in again…?"

Boyd glances sideways at her, razor momentarily poised as he replies, "Apparently so."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "God knows – Stella's already told her we've made no further progress on her father's murder."

"But she's coming in anyway? You're going soft in your old age, Peter; you know that, don't you?"

"It's called 'sensitive policing', Grace."

She snorts good-naturedly. "Do you even know what that means?"

"Yeah," he replies with a quick, sly grin. "I read the notes Spence took at the seminar about it."

Grace chuckles softly and impulsively kisses his bare shoulder. "So _that's_ why you didn't tell her to piss off and leave us in peace to get on with things…"

"Obviously."

"And the fact that she's young, blonde and pretty…?"

"Has nothing whatsoever to do with it. Can we use your office?"

"Depends what for…" she says archly.

"So funny," Boyd says dryly. "I want you to sit in with us again, as well."

"Don't trust yourself?" Graces asks with a smirk.

"Not my type, Grace."

"Liar."

He grins again, but very quickly sobers. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's definitely something going on there, Grace."

She nods slightly. "Actually, I know what you mean. But her story checks out, doesn't it?"

"Absolutely. It's just…"

"There are undercurrents?" Grace suggests.

"Mm. Now get out of my bloody way, woman. You're not helping."

Wisely, she leaves him to it, takes herself back to her bedroom to concentrate on the important twin dilemmas of hair and make-up. There's no doubt about it, they're going to be late for work. Again.

-oOo-

Rachel Cooper is indeed young, blonde and pretty. Early-twenties, very slender. Dark, haunting eyes and the kind of unconscious vulnerability that somehow screams 'victim' to someone as experienced in the dark pathways of the criminal mind as Grace. There's no doubt in her mind that a predator could easily pick Rachel out in a crowd – but that's too simplistic. There something else about her, something a touch wild, a touch fey. Something that makes people feel a little uneasy in her presence despite how utterly inoffensive she appears to be. When she smiles her expression is open and genuine, but Grace knows exactly what Boyd means – there's something going on below the surface that's very difficult to interpret.

"DSI Boyd will join us in a few minutes," Grace opens, escorting Rachel into her office. "Please, sit down. Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?"

The younger woman settles herself and declines the offer with a demure shake of her head. Her voice is so quiet that Grace strains to hear her as she says, "I hope I'm not wasting your time… Mr Boyd said I could come in if I wanted to talk…"

Not quite the story Grace has been told, but she doesn't quibble. "We're here to help you, Rachel."

"That's what he said. I just sometimes think… Well, it was all so long ago now…"

Grace offers her the standard reassurances that they too often find themselves giving to victims or families of victims who feel that they've been forgotten by the relentless march of time, and when Boyd joins them he solemnly reiterates her words. Rachel doesn't look convinced, but Grace knows he means everything he says. He has faults in abundance, but no-one has ever questioned his fierce dedication to the ethos of the Cold Case Unit. His unit, his ethos. Old crimes, cold crimes, it doesn't matter to Boyd – they are all equally important. And if Grace ever has cause to wonder what on earth she sees in him, she only has to watch how gently, how patiently he deals with the victims of such crimes to be reminded.

It seems she's not the only one who appreciates his finer qualities, because when he briefly steps out of the office to speak to Spencer about another matter, Rachel says, "I wish the guys who dealt with us when… Well, you know. I just wish they'd been a bit more like him. He's a good guy."

Not sure how best to reply, Grace settles for a noncommittal nod and, "He is."

"It's such a shame that – " Rachel starts, and then breaks off far too abruptly.

Grace frowns, prompts, "That…?"

Colour rises in Rachel's cheeks, but she clears her throat and says quickly, "I read about his son. It was in all the papers…"

There's truth in that, no question. Senior police officer's son dies from drug overdose… not front page news, maybe, but it certainly merited a paragraph or two even in the national dailies. But Grace isn't easily fooled, and something about Rachel's minor slip bothers her. Bothers her a lot, in fact. Those painful, intrusive news stories appeared well over six months ago, and she suspects that to have found and read them Rachel must have quietly been doing some significant research…

Boyd's return breaks her chain of thought – but Grace doesn't forget Rachel's inadvertent remark.

-oOo-

When Grace arrives – alone – for work three days later, she walks into a squad room echoing to the sound of not-quite suppressed sniggering. The main culprit seems to be Stella, but Spencer and Eve don't seem to be completely immune. Warily, Grace asks, "All right – what's so funny?"

Snorting with laughter, Stella gestures towards Boyd's office and pulls a face. "There's been a special delivery…"

Sighing at the predictable reaction of her other colleagues, Grace goes to investigate. Boyd is in his office, leaning against the edge of his desk with his arms folded, and he is gazing with bewildered aversion at what appears to be – _is_ – a very large and very professional bouquet of dark red carnations which has been unceremoniously dumped on the table near the door. Grace raises her eyebrows, equally bewildered but also faintly amused, and at his suspicious glance immediately says, "Nothing to do with me."

Boyd frowns. "No note."

Which, as far as Grace is concerned, casts the matter in a completely different light. Amusement rapidly disappearing, she examines the bouquet more closely. Local florist, but no other clue to its origin. She says, "Red carnations."

"So?"

"Love, Boyd. Looks like you've got a secret admirer."

To his credit he looks far more alarmed than self-satisfied. "Tell me this is a wind-up, Grace, please."

"It might very well be… but if it is I don't know anything about it."

Boyd's response is grumpy and succinct. "Find out."

Grace attempts to do so – but despite her best efforts, she discovers absolutely nothing.

-oOo-

Saturdays are beginning to develop a familiar pattern, one which follows on seamlessly from bibulous Friday nights. Late waking, late getting up, late breakfast, late lunch. It's something of a novelty, at least for Grace, and though she makes a point of complaining about how much of the day has passed them by before they're remotely ready to step outside the front door of Boyd's elegant period townhouse, she's actually becoming quite fond of the concept of long, lazy mornings. It hasn't taken her very long to discover that at weekends, in the privacy of his own home and well away from the stresses and demands of his job, Boyd tends to be a surprisingly amiable, lazy and even-tempered creature – and Grace has also discovered she most definitely likes him that way. As a psychologist, the polar extremes of his temperament fascinate her, but in the name of peace and harmony she tries to keep her professional curiosity firmly to herself.

Besides, there are far better ways to spend a cold winter morning than attempting to analyse the man who seems utterly determined to keep her from leaving both his bed and his bedroom.

It's early afternoon before they venture out into the bracing January air.

They are arguing half-heartedly about the course of the rest of the day, and they don't notice the long, deep scratches scored down the length of her car until they move onto arguing about which vehicle to take to whatever destination they finally agree on. To them, arguing has always been a perfectly acceptable form of communication, and mostly it means nothing at all. But they both stop in silence to survey the unexpected damage.

Grace doesn't mince her words. "Bastards."

Boyd frowns as he leans down to inspect the damage. "Keyed."

She glowers at the back of his head. "Yes, I can see that, thank you."

He's still frowning as he straightens up. "Unusual round here. I've never had any problems."

"That doesn't make me feel any better. That's going to cost me a fortune."

Boyd produces his phone. "I'll ring Greenwich nick."

"What's the point of that?"

"It's called crime-mapping, Grace, you know that. Anyway, you'll need a crime number for the insurance."

Boyd is right, but if anything that only sours her mood further. Glaring first at her anonymous, battered hatchback and then at Boyd's pristine executive saloon, she grumbles, "Why _my_ car and not yours…?"

-oOo-

"For God's sake, Grace," he says, the exasperation in his voice very clear.

She pushes his shoulder again, harder this time. "I'm telling you, I heard something."

"Yeah, my patience snapping under the strain."

"Peter."

Boyd sighs heavily, irritably. "Oh, all _right_…"

Grace watches as he levers himself up and out of bed, and for once her attention is far less on the interesting play of muscle beneath his skin and far more on the sharp edge of anxiety that's been plaguing her throughout the evening. She doesn't say a word as he pulls on his discarded jeans and pads away barefoot, zipping and buttoning as he goes. A few moments later a soft creak from the stairs tells her he's on his way to investigate the noises she's adamant she heard downstairs. Not really aware of how tense she is, Grace waits; waits for noise, for a scuffle, maybe. She doesn't give much for the chances of any would-be burglar, not against a half-dressed and extremely bad-tempered Detective Superintendent who'd far rather be in bed with his lady than patrolling in search of intruders.

Silence. Near-silence, anyway. Definitely no roar of anger, definitely no scuffling.

Boyd returns eventually, and as he walks back into the bedroom he shakes his head. "Nothing."

"You're sure?"

His reply is impatient. "Of course I'm bloody sure. I've lived in this house for nearly twenty years, Grace, and there's nothing and nobody to be seen anywhere. Look, I know the business with your car has made you jumpy, but – "

"Did you go out and check the cars?"

"Did I, bollocks. It's fucking freezing out there."

"I think you should," Grace says, very well aware that the suggestion will be deeply unpopular. It doesn't surprise her at all that he subjects her to a glare that's just about as icy as the temperature outside. She doesn't push him, doesn't say anything else, and for a moment there's a silent but palpable battle of wills between them. She wins, but only, she suspects, because he has no intention of giving her the satisfaction of being able to say _I told you so_ in the morning. He does, however, make a great show of searching out and donning a very old, very well-worn cream Aran sweater before stalking haughtily out of the bedroom again.

Grace feels a slight pang of guilt as she hears him marching down the stairs again – deliberately heavy-footed – but she needs the reassurance. Boyd's right – the deliberate damage to her car has unsettled her, and not necessarily without cause. The course her career has taken over the years lends itself to attracting unstable people with grudges… not a good thought to dwell on so late at night. Images and memories momentarily crowd her mind and Grace mentally shakes herself. She's not easily frightened, not easily intimidated, and she understands the foolishness of letting her imagination run away with her, but even so…

By the time Boyd returns, she's sitting up in bed, her neck and shoulders stiff with tension. Again, he shakes his head. "There's nothing, Grace. Cars are fine, all the doors and windows are secure and there's nobody about."

"I know I heard something."

"Fox, maybe? Stray cat?"

She's not convinced, but she allows there's nothing else he can do. Maybe he's right, and she's just unusually jumpy. Settling back, she waits for him to join her again. When he does, she bites her lip to stop herself complaining about how cold he is, how icy his skin feels. She's not in the mood to provoke an argument. It surprises her, though that he reaches to switch off the bedside light, plunging the big bedroom into heavy darkness. Surprises her even more that although Boyd presses himself against her in search of warmth, he makes no move towards the earlier seduction he was so keen on. Grace isn't sure if she's annoyed or pleased by his apparent change of heart.

He kisses the top of her head. "Go to sleep, Grace."

Reassured by his presence, Grace forces herself to relax, and at some point she falls into a doze.

-oOo-

"I _told_ you," Grace lashes at him furiously. "I told you I heard something!"

Phone to his ear, Boyd ignores her. It's almost lunchtime and in the shade the heavy overnight frost clings on stubbornly, but her concern is not the biting winter chill. Her concern is the further damage to her car. All four tyres are flat, and it's blindingly obvious that they've all been deliberately punctured. Furious, she glares at Boyd, but he's now involved in the kind of conversation that consists of him bluntly telling the other party exactly how they're going to proceed. Under different circumstances his high-handedness would amuse her in a dark, distant way, but not this morning. She's angry with him, angry with herself and angry with whoever is responsible for the damage. In fact, Grace is simply angry. Justifiably so.

When he ends the call, she demands, "Well?"

"The SOCOs are on their way."

That mollifies her a little. Less aggressively, she says, "It's obvious I'm being deliberately targeted."

Boyd's reaction is calm. "I don't think we should start jumping to conclusions, Grace."

She snorts disparagingly. "Remind me again how many years you've been in the Force?"

"Enough to know that this could still be petty vandalism."

"Oh come _on_…"

"Grace," he says, an uncharacteristically patient note in his voice. "I don't have all the answers, okay? You know damn well I don't believe in this kind of coincidence, but I don't think paranoia is going to help."

"I can't believe you just said that. Who is it who – "

"Grace."

She subsides grudgingly. "Fine. Let's see what the SOCOs have to say, shall we?"

-oOo-

Several days pass, and happily there are no further incidents. Grace is left feeling uneasy, but she begins to wonder if it's indeed possible that she has simply been extremely unlucky. All Boyd's growling and rank-pulling achieves very little – the SOCOs from Greenwich conclude that yes, her car has been deliberately damaged, but that the perpetrator has left no obvious evidence of their identity. She knows, of course, that it's possible that the combined might of the CCU's forensics team could possibly come up with a little more information, but she also knows that there's no way Boyd could justify authorising such a thing. Not for a couple of scratches and some flat tyres. It's galling, but she accepts it, and when nothing further happens she attempts to adopt a philosophical attitude towards the damage. Just one of those things, she tries to tell herself.

Towards the end of the week, she's sitting in her office working through a back-log of reports when Stella taps quietly on her open door. Grace looks up with a questioning smile and the younger woman says, "Rachel Cooper's here again."

Grace sighs long-sufferingly. "What on earth does she want this time?"

"No idea; she's up in reception asking to see Boyd."

"And…?"

"Boyd isn't here," Stella reminds her. "He's at Scotland Yard all day. Can you…?"

Grace considers. Decides to follow a hunch. "Do something for me, Stella… ask them to tell her that Boyd isn't in the building – not that he's busy, but that he's not here. Then get them to ask her if she'd like to talk to me or Spence instead."

Stella shrugs slightly. "Okay. Any particular reason…?"

"Let's see what happens, shall we?" Grace says cryptically.

Stella nods and disappears. Grace waits, turning things over in her mind. It's not a long wait. Stella returns in a very few minutes. She shakes her head. "She told them she'd come back another time."

Grace isn't at all surprised. She says, "I thought she might."

Stella raises her eyebrows, but Grace doesn't pursue the topic.

-oOo-

When Boyd finally returns, Grace finds herself in a distinctly irritable queue for his attention. Worse, she finds herself at the back of the irritable queue, but impatient as she is, maybe that's a good thing. She wants to talk to him without interruption, wants to kick ideas about with him without anyone else hovering in the background. Professionally, theirs is a remarkably complementary relationship, despite the number of times they end up vehemently disagreeing and she has a lot of respect both for his experience and his intuition. Somewhere between their two disciplines they usually find some common ground, and if she's honest, most of their angriest disagreements have been rooted firmly in personal rather than professional conflict.

She watches as he deals with the stiff competition for his attention, and she has to hide a slight smile at his weary, strained patience. No-one would ever dare suggest it to him, but Boyd is definitely mellowing with age. The sharp corners are not quite as sharp as they used to be, and he doesn't rear up as quickly or as fiercely as he used to… Maybe that's partly her influence, too, Grace reflects. Maybe something of her calm is finally rubbing off on him –

– or maybe not.

Even she jumps as his mood suddenly shifts and he barks impatiently at Stella, "Goddard's not our problem – tell those lazy bastards on the second floor to piss off."

"But, sir…"

The increase in volume is remarkable. "Did you bother to read the sign on the wall, DC Goodman? This is the Cold Case Unit, not a dumping ground for everything CID can't be arsed to do!"

In response, the minor melee around Boyd's desk abruptly disperses, everyone apparently deciding that it's time to get back to work. Elsewhere.

Suddenly it's just the two of them, but the dark glare coming from the far side of the desk doesn't abate. "Yes…?"

Ignoring his brusqueness, Grace closes his office door, then advances and says, "Rachel Cooper was here again. Looking for you."

"Fuck's sake. I hope you told her to piss off. How many times do I have to tell her that someone will contact her if there's any progress?"

"I think we may have a problem, Boyd."

"Just the one? Makes a bloody change. Oh, do sit down, why don't you?"

Already comfortably settled, Grace regards him placidly. "Is there any particular reason you're in such a foul mood?"

"Give me a break, Grace. I've just spent the better part of the day in an endless stream of meetings about efficiency, stream-lining and effective budget-management. I'm a detective, for God's sake, not a – "

"Boyd."

"You asked," he says sullenly, but he doesn't return to the tirade. "Well? We may have a problem…?"

"Rachel Cooper."

"That's less of a problem and more of a minor pain in the arse."

"I think," Grace says carefully, "Miss Cooper may be a little… infatuated. With you."

She half-expects him to laugh, half-expects him to grin in the infuriatingly smug manner that so often makes her want to slap him, but to her surprise he merely looks bemused. "What?"

Picking her way slowly through her thoughts and suppositions, Grace outlines her concerns, finishing with, "…and it wouldn't surprise me at all if she was responsible for the damage to my car."

Boyd frowns. "That's a serious allegation to make, Grace."

"I'm not making an allegation. I'm just telling you what I know and what I suspect. The desk sergeant told me himself that she couldn't get out of the building fast enough once she knew you weren't here."

"That doesn't mean she vandalised your car."

"I know that – for heaven's sake, Boyd, give me some credit…"

He leans back in his chair and says nothing for several long moments. Grace fancies she can almost see the thought processes at work. Writing him off as more brawn than brains is a serious mistake – one she never makes. At length Boyd says, "All right. So, what do we actually know about Rachel?"

"We know she saw her father brutally murdered when she was only fifteen," Grace says soberly. "We know she's had extensive counselling and trauma-focused therapy to help her deal with what happened."

"Do we have any psychiatric reports?"

She shakes her head. "No, I've checked."

"All right, give it to me in layman's terms, Grace. What's your gut feeling?"

Holding his steady gaze, she says, "I think there's a strong possibility she's becoming increasingly fixated on you. Think about it, she was an impressionable teen when she lost her father, and then, years later, along comes an attractive older man – "

He smirks. "Thank you."

" – who offers to pick up the pieces for her."

"Hardly."

"Essentially."

"So what do we do? Bring her in and read her the riot act?"

"We bring her in," Grace confirms, "and we talk to her. Or rather, you talk to her, and I watch."

Boyd shrugs. "If that's what you think we should do."

"I'm not imagining this, Boyd."

"Did I say that I thought you were…?"

-oOo-

They eat a late dinner at the little local Italian restaurant they've been using on and off for years, a quiet, unassuming place where the food and wine is remarkably good given that the prices aren't ridiculously over-inflated. The atmosphere and the wine both go a long way to helping Grace relax, and by the time they venture back out into the cold night she's willing to ask humorously, "Are you flattered?"

Boyd gives her a thoughtful sort of look. The sort of look that befits a man who suspects a trap is being laid for him. He shrugs negligently. "I'd be more flattered if you weren't telling me she's totally unstable."

Slipping her arm through his, she says, "I didn't actually say that."

"Oh? My mistake – reading between the lines I thought you were saying 'she really fancies you, but hey, she's a complete nutter'."

"We try not to use words like 'nutter' nowadays, Peter. It upsets the political correctness lobby. So? Are you?"

"Flattered? You really expect me to answer that? Do I look like a total idiot, Grace?"

She laughs. He's very canny, always has been. "This is England – you can't plead the Fifth."

He stops, forcing her to stop with him, but in the harsh glare of the city's bright lights she can quite clearly see the glint of amusement in his eyes. Of course he's flattered – she knows it, he knows it. But it means nothing, and they both know that, too. He says, "If she's as crazy as you say she is, I really think you could do with some police protection for the duration."

"Close protection?" Grace suggests archly.

"Mm. Very close."

"I hope you're not thinking of delegating, Superintendent?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Doctor."

He's not one for public displays of affection, but perhaps the temptation's just too strong, because he unexpectedly lowers his head to kiss her, and she's not at all disposed to complain. Not when he's simultaneously so gentle and yet so self-assured, not when the alcohol humming in her bloodstream is so pleasantly warm – a sharp contrast to the bitter January chill. Momentarily lost in him, Grace doesn't see beyond his shoulder, doesn't see the dark van parked on the other side of the street, or the shadowy figure inside it. Even when they draw apart, she's too distracted to notice that they are being closely watched.

-oOo-

"Why am I here?" Eve asks, settling next to Grace in the observation area outside the unit's twin interview rooms.

"Objectivity," Grace tells her. "Failing that, a second opinion."

"I see," Eve says, her tone suggesting that she doesn't. "That's Rachel Cooper, isn't it?"

"Large as life and twice as blonde."

Eve chuckles. "Your claws are showing, Grace."

Grace smiles slightly in reply. "_Mea culpa_."

"So…?"

"Just watch for a few minutes."

Eve shrugs and does so. Patiently, Grace divides her attention between her colleague and the scene unfolding in front of them. In the interview room, Boyd and Rachel are facing each other across the heavy table, and while Grace is reluctantly impressed by how rigidly Boyd is adhering to the firm instructions he was given before commencing the interview, she is far from impressed by Rachel's behaviour. _Far_ from impressed.

Eventually, Grace looks at Eve and says, "Well?"

Again, Eve shrugs. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Grace."

"First impressions?"

"Well, she's an incorrigible flirt, for a start."

Feeling vindicated, Grace nods. "And…?"

"She either can't read non-verbal cues, or she's deliberately ignoring them."

"And Boyd?"

Eve tilts her head slightly, studying the scene again. "Isn't being drawn. He's closing her down every time she tries to advance, but she's not getting the message."

"And from that we deduce…?"

Eve frowns. "This really isn't my field, Grace. But for what it's worth, I'd say she has a serious problem recognising appropriate boundaries."

"Thank you," Grace says, and she means it. "I really couldn't have put it better myself."

Eve gives her a long, penetrating look. "Come on, then, Grace. What's this all about? What's going on?"

"I think Boyd's got himself a stalker."

Eve starts to laugh. "Seriously?"

Grace nods. "Seriously."

Suddenly much more solemn, Eve says, "The flowers…?"

"I think so," Grace confirms. She hesitates before continuing, "I also think she was responsible for the damage to my car."

Eve's frown returns, puzzled this time. "What? Why?"

Grace gazes at the younger woman steadily. "My car was outside Boyd's house on both nights."

"So?"

"Overnight."

"What do you… Oh."

Under different circumstances, Grace might have found the long, awkward pause more than a little amusing. As it is, she waits for a moment before saying simply, "You hadn't realised?"

There's definitely a slight flush rising in Eve's cheeks, and her voice is tinged with embarrassment. "I had a few suspicions, but… God, you've managed to keep that quiet. How long?"

"A couple of months. Now do you see the need for objectivity?"

"Yeah," Eve says with a nod. "Bloody hell, Grace… you and Boyd?"

Grace sighs. "You don't have to sound quite so shocked, you know. I may be old, but I'm not quite ready for the scrapheap. Not yet, anyway."

"Not what I meant," Eve says, rolling her eyes. "Just… Boyd?"

"What's wrong with Boyd?"

Eve raises her dark eyebrows. "Where would you like me to start?"

"Not funny, Eve."

"Sorry," she says, but she doesn't sound particularly contrite. "Boyd? Really?"

"Oh, God," Grace says, and her irritation isn't feigned. "Yes. _Boyd_. And me. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?"

Eve shudders theatrically. "No. Absolutely not."

"Good. So, can we get back to discussing Rachel now…?"

-oOo-

"Eve agrees with me," Grace says stubbornly. On reflection, it's not the best thing to have said.

Expression thunderous, Boyd snaps back, "And that's another thing – how can you possibly be so naïve? Do you know what will happen if the DAC finds out what's been going on between you and me?"

Annoyed by his tone, she hits straight back with, "For God's sake, Boyd, they're hardly going to put your head on a spike outside the Yard for it, are they? There are illicit affairs going on throughout the Met – always have been, always will be."

Collapsing into his chair, Boyd glares at her from behind his desk. "Which is exactly why there are bloody policies about it!"

"You're overreacting. As usual. I'm not some junior officer trying to fast-track my way to promotion – "

"No, you're a senior consultant in a highly controversial specialist unit. We talked about this and we agreed – "

Grace interrupts him with a curt, "Isn't it a bit late to be worrying about getting your knuckles rapped by the DAC?"

"If they find out they'll terminate your contract with this unit immediately. Do you realise that? Never mind me getting my knuckles rapped for screwing around with – "

"Oh, charming."

"Grow up, Grace. You'd better hope Eve knows how to keep her mouth bloody shut."

Incredulous, she shakes her head. "I can't believe that's all you're worried about. Besides, it's hardly difficult for people to figure out, is it? You're virtually living at my house during the week."

"I can easily rectify that."

"Don't be so damned childish. I really don't need you behaving like a petulant – "

Boyd slams his palm down on his desk. "Jesus _Christ_… Will you stop this? How am I supposed to even hear myself think with you going on and on in my ear? There's nothing we can do about the bloody Cooper woman, all right? We've got nothing on her, no evidence at all, just your wild speculations. Are you jealous? Is that it, Grace? Because if you somehow think you've got competition, you're seriously mistaken. Do you really think I'm stupid enough to stick my dick in a fucking hornets' nest?"

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?" Grace challenges angrily.

His answering glare is icy, but he says nothing. There isn't much he _can_ say – they both know there are skeletons in his cupboard which wouldn't go down well with his superiors if they came tumbling out into the light. _Female_ skeletons. All the Greta Simpsons, all the Lisa Tobins… and all the Jess Worralls, come to that. Boyd does not have a good track record when it comes to staying out of trouble with the sort of women he'd definitely keep well away from if he had half the sense he was born with. And that's not just Grace's personal opinion – it's her professional opinion, too.

Into the tense, angry silence, she finally says, "Oh, this isn't getting us anywhere. I'm tired and I'm going home."

Boyd sighs heavily. "Grace, come on, be reasonable. Seriously, what do you expect me to do?"

It's a fair question. But Grace isn't feeling very fair. "Fine. Have it your own way; you usually do."

-oOo-

It's a single word, but it tells her everything. One word, scratched – _slashed_ – into the formerly immaculate painted surface of her front door. A powerful, emotive word.

_Bitch_.

For too many seconds Grace stands motionless, staring stupidly at the damage. She feels shock, she feels fear and anger. She feels… She doesn't know _what_ she feels. Not really. She shivers, and not just from the bitter winter chill that makes the night air spikey and hostile. Slowly, carefully, she turns on the spot, her eyes raking the darker shadows, but it's obvious she's alone. The perpetrator is long gone. Instinct tells her to get into the warm safety of the house as quickly as possible, but she's worked alongside hard-headed detectives for far too long to risk contaminating any evidence that might possibly prove her theory about the culprit's identity.

Fumbling in her bag for her phone, Grace does the only thing she was ever going to do – she calls Boyd.

He arrives less than half-an-hour later, the normally concealed blue lights strobing hypnotically behind the silver Audi's belligerent-looking radiator grille – and he isn't alone.

-oOo-

This, she thinks, as she watches him, is Boyd in his most elemental form. Tough, aggressive, intelligent, stripped to utilitarian levels. It's almost as if he has simply switched off entire areas of his personality, and what is left is purely functional, utterly streamlined. She's know him for so many years, and yet this… this Grace has never seen. He even looks different, somehow – lean, feral. Hungry. There's none of his customary dark humour; no banter, no anger, even. The orders he gives are quick and concise, and maybe their CCU colleagues also see the transformation because no-one argues, no-one tries to offer an opinion. It's strange, but Grace has the distinct feeling that she's catching fleeting glimpses of the sharp, fiercely ambitious young man who tried so very hard to claw his way up the ladder of promotion without compromising his own integrity.

"Grace?" Spencer's voice says, and she turns to face him. He gives her a slight, sympathetic smile. "Eve's about done, but we're going to seal the place up for the night. You need to go and pack an overnight bag."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, Spence…"

"Not my decision," he says, raising his hands in a placatory gesture. "Boyd wants everything done by the book."

"Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything," she replies tartly. "What's he intending to do, pack me off to a bloody safe house for the night, or something?"

"The mood he's in, I wouldn't put anything past him," Spencer tells her grimly. "Grace…"

"All right, all right," she says, waving him away. "Message received and understood, Spence."

But she doesn't go upstairs to pack a bag, instead she goes to confront Boyd in the narrow hallway. He evidently reads her expression perfectly, because he says, "We're not arguing about this, Grace. This is officially a crime scene and you can't stay here."

"And suddenly you're prepared to take this seriously."

"Don't start on me, I'm warning you. I'm not in the mood for it."

Grace laughs sharply. "_You're_ not in the mood for it? Remind me again, just whose house and car is it that's been damaged?"

"Oh, for… Look, for once in your life will you just let me get on and do my bloody job without arguing every step of the way about it? You wanted me to act, well now I'm acting. And if it turns out Cooper's responsible, I'll charge her with everything I can think of – but right now I really need you to be cooperative not obstructive."

"Boyd – "

"Grace, for heaven's sake…"

Strangely, it's only then that she fully realises how worried he is. And the realisation softens her. "So where am I expected to go?"

"Eve's place. Stella's taking your car back to headquarters, and Spence'll give you a lift so you don't have to hang around until Eve's finished."

"And what are you going to be doing?"

"What I do best, Grace. Kicking people's arses until I get some bloody answers."

-oOo-

Twenty minutes or so after Spencer reluctantly leaves her alone in Eve's big, untidy flat, Grace is mildly surprised by the arrival of the woman in question. Eve smiles hesitantly in greeting and gestures quickly around her. "Sorry about the mess – I'm supposed to be moving in a few weeks' time and everything's in absolute chaos. I don't know where half of this junk came from."

"Don't worry," Grace says wryly. "You were just lucky tonight – half the time my place looks like a herd of wildebeest has just stampeded through it."

"Boyd…?"

Startled both by Eve's openness and the suggestion itself, Grace chuckles. "God, no. He's usually so obsessively tidy it's frightening."

"Really?"

She nods solemnly. "Really."

They regard each other cautiously for a second or two, and then both of them smile, recognising, perhaps, a certain sisterhood. Eve asks, "Do you want anything to eat or drink?"

"To be honest, all I want to do is sleep – or try to."

"Let me show you where the spare bedroom and the bathroom are. I'm afraid I'm a bit of a night owl so…"

"I'm used to that, believe me."

The spare bedroom is a reasonable size, but a large amount of the floor is covered by cardboard boxes, some stacked, some already sealed, some only half-full. It doesn't bother Grace – the bed isn't large, but she soon discovers that it's very comfortable and despite the high stress of the evening it isn't long before she starts to doze. She stirs once, thinking she hears soft voices in the next room, but sleepily concludes either she's dreaming or Eve is watching the television, either way, she's soon back in a heavy doze that turns slowly into a deep and remarkably peaceful sleep.

-oOo-

Grace wakes to a sense of complete disorientation. She's stiff and cramped, the formerly comfortable single bed feels strangely overcrowded, and the looming stacks of boxes definitely don't belong to her, or to Boyd. Boyd… who is behind her and snoring softly in her ear. In Eve's spare bed. Which doesn't make any sense at _all_. Grace concludes she's having some sort of deeply bizarre dream. Except the way she's balanced precariously on the very edge of the mattress doesn't feel much like a dream. Nor does the familiar sleek, muscular warmth pressed against her back. Very, very strange. She cautiously tries to turn over and finds she can't – there simply isn't enough room. It seems he's rather too big to easily share a single bed with.

Quietly, she tries, "Boyd…?"

No reaction. The gentle snoring continues unabated.

Grace elbows him accurately in the ribs. "Peter."

"Mm…?"

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"Sleeping," he mutters.

Warily, she asks, "Does Eve know you're here?"

"Of course she bloody knows…" he says thickly, a mighty yawn half-swallowing the words. "What, you think I broke in, or something...?"

Grace wouldn't put it past him. But she suspects that it's way too early in the morning to start arguing. Cold winter light, thin and insipid, is starting to creep into the room through small gaps in the curtains. Somewhere nearby she can hear the sound of trains and traffic; makes sense – Eve doesn't live far from King's Cross. She peers at the heavy watch on the wrist attached to the arm that's loosely draped over her and concludes that if she can't make out the time it's definitely too early. Hardly aware of doing it, Grace strokes his forearm, liking the feel of the short, silky hairs against her fingertips. She asks provocatively, "Weren't you the one having a temper tantrum about Eve knowing…?"

"Shut up, I'm sleeping."

The sullen growl only makes her smile. The fact that he's with her speaks volumes about just how much he cares. She can clearly picture him brazenly fronting out his acute embarrassment, can easily imagine him arriving at Eve's flat full of resolve and bombast, utterly determined to get his own way, no matter what the long-term cost to him in complete mortification. Grace only wonders which of them was the more uncomfortable – Boyd or Eve.

A hesitant tap on the door indicates that the woman in question is not only awake, but out of bed. Eve's voice, subdued, quiet and reluctant, says, "Grace? Grace, are you awake?"

"Yes," she calls back, surprised.

"Spence just called – he's trying to get hold of Boyd. I think…"

Whatever Eve thinks is a little too muffled to decipher. Sighing, Grace suggests, "Just open the door, Eve."

"Um…"

"Eve."

The door opens a tiny fraction. "Spence can't get hold of Boyd. His phone's off."

"Battery must have gone flat," Boyd says irritably. "Where's your phone, Grace?"

"In my handbag…"

"I'll, um, leave you to it, then…" Eve's voice says.

It is, Grace decides, one of the most surreal moments she can remember. Not helped by her reluctant admission, "Er… my bag's out there…"

"God's _sake_…" Boyd says, and there's a sudden flurry of movement from behind her.

Catching sight of him as he navigates his way through the maze of cardboard boxes, Grace loudly advises, "Eve, you might want to look the other way…"

"She's a bloody pathologist, Grace."

"Yes," Grace agrees patiently, eying his bare back. "But you're not actually dead, are you?"

"Don't mind me," Eve's voice says ruefully from the other side of the spare room door. "I'm fairly sure I'm having a weird, stress-induced nightmare, and when I wake up…"

Too, too surreal.

But when Boyd returns a few minutes later, his expression is hard and grim. "Rachel Cooper's been admitted to hospital. Tranquiliser overdose."

-oOo-

"Aren't you listening?" Grace demands impatiently. "I don't _care_ what Eve will be able to tell us. Even if Rachel was responsible, I'm not prepared to press charges."

Clearly irritated by her change of heart, Boyd growls, "Grace…"

"No," she repeats calmly. "For heaven's sake, Boyd, have a little compassion, will you? She needs help, not punishment."

Although his head is firmly down over whatever it is he's doing, Spencer's disparaging snort is clearly audible, but Grace chooses to ignore it. She folds her arms and gazes pointedly at Boyd. He's still pacing restlessly in front of the big Perspex evidence board, but she knows his mind is not on any of the cases the CCU are currently officially involved in. His mind is on Rachel Cooper and her unexpected suicide attempt. He stops, raises his head and glares across the squad room at her. "You know what your problem is? You're too damned soft. If she's guilty she deserves to be punished."

"Justice, Boyd – or revenge?"

"You can use as much emotive language as you like, Grace. Fact is, I'm a hard-hearted bastard, and if Eve tells me she's found _anything_ that links Rachel to either the damage to your car or to your front door, I'll have no compunction at all about arresting her for criminal damage, threatening behaviour and anything else I can think of."

Grace continues to glare; she knows how intractable he can be, knows that butting heads with him in the squad room in front of his junior officers won't get her anywhere. In private, she might be able to talk him round, might be able to persuade him to see her point of view, but not in public. Not over something like this. It's irritating and it's frustrating, but eventually she's forced to say, "Fine. Well, in that case we'll just wait and see exactly what Eve's got to say, shall we?"

Boyd grunts, clearly displeased, but evidently decides to vent his annoyance on another matter entirely because he abruptly rounds on Stella with a sharp, "Why the hell is Alan Goddard's file back on my desk?"

She visibly jumps and blinks in surprise. "Inspector Mitcham – "

"I don't give a fuck about Inspector Mitcham. _Tu comprends_…?"

"_Oui, monsieur_."

Almost on cue, Eve appears from the direction of the lab, her expression pensive. "You're not going to like this."

It sounds like a general announcement, but it's Boyd who says, "Tell me."

"The good news is even though Grace has been using her car, when we took a closer look, we found a couple of partial prints on the rear door that the SOCOs somehow missed – and they belong to Rachel Cooper."

"And the bad news?" Boyd asks.

Eve grimaces. "We couldn't find anything at all to link her to the attack on Grace's front door."

-oOo-

Even before she gets to the hospital, Grace knows exactly how Boyd will react if – _when_ – he finds out. He will be furious with her, both for deciding to take matters into her own hands, and for effectively sabotaging any chance of a successful prosecution. In fact, she reflects as she parks her borrowed car and heads into the big, old-fashioned maze of wards and corridors, _furious_ probably won't begin to adequately cover it. He's going to be spectacularly angry, and there's a fairly good chance it will be days before they manage to exchange a civil word without him throwing bitter accusations at her. It's not going to be pleasant, Grace knows that, but she's never been particularly intimidated by his wrath in the past, and she's not intending to start now. Not where a matter of principle is concerned.

Rachel Cooper is in a side room, and even though it hardly seems possible, she looks even more vulnerable than usual confined to a hospital bed. Grace isn't sure what sort of reception she was expecting, but it certainly surprises her when the young woman takes one look at her and immediately bursts into tears. Compassionate Grace may be, but she's no-one's fool, and she doesn't rush to comfort Rachel. Instead, she draws up a chair and waits for the sobs to subside. When they do, she says, "I assume you're aware of just how much trouble you're in?"

The dark eyes are wild and frightened, and they look stark against the pallor of Rachel's skin. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I don't know… Oh, God…"

Grace is shrewd and she is experienced, and she senses sincerity behind the histrionics. Quietly, she says, "DSI Boyd is this close – " she makes an illustrative gesture with her finger and thumb " – to charging you with a number of offences, including criminal damage."

Rachel starts to sob again – and Grace lets her. She is not as forgiving or as indulgent as Boyd often complains she is. Truth be told, there are times when she's a lot harsher and a lot less lenient than he is. She waits, and when she judges Rachel's ready to listen, she says, "Why, Rachel? What on earth did you think you were going to achieve?"

"I wasn't thinking," Rachel admits in a near-whisper. "I just… Sometimes I do stupid things, and I don't know why… What… What's going to happen to me?"

"That's up to you," Grace says simply. "It's possible you could be let off with a caution… if Boyd thinks you're unlikely to commit any further offences."

"I've never been in any trouble before, Doctor Foley. You do believe me, don't you?"

Grace doesn't need to believe her – she already knows the words are true. Rachel Cooper doesn't have a criminal record. She says, "My car, my front door – why? Because of Boyd?"

"I don't… Your front door?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

The blonde shakes her head. "I… don't. Really, I don't."

"Rachel, do you really want to end up in court for a silly mistake?"

"No, of course not… but…"

"Were you jealous?" Grace asks her. "Did you think you had some kind of special relationship with Boyd?"

"He was nice to me," Rachel says defensively. "He listened to me, took me seriously."

"That's what he's paid to do. What happened to your father was appalling, and – "

"No," Rachel says stubbornly, and for moment her dark eyes are cold and steely. "You don't understand. He likes me. I know he does. I can see it in the way he looks at me."

And that's when the alarm bells once again start to ring loudly in Grace's mind.

-oOo-

Boyd should be shouting. Shouting, cursing and probably kicking things. He's not. He is, in fact, ominously calm. It makes it far easier to talk to him, but Grace can't quite shake the sense that she's standing far too close to an active volcano that could erupt at any moment. Shouting and storming is Boyd's default position when he's angry; studious calm is a lot more worrying and a lot more potentially dangerous. It's just the two of them and his office door is firmly closed – hardly unusual, but Grace knows he will be a lot freer with invective and criticism while they are on their own. But she's still not afraid. Wary, yes; afraid, no.

Carefully, she finally asks, "So what do you think?"

His expression remains neutral, gives nothing away. "I think this entire thing has turned into a complete fucking balls up. That's what I think."

She sighs. "Thank you for that helpful insight."

Boyd gets up and starts to pace again. "What do you want me to say, Grace? We have no chance of going anywhere with this – even the most half-witted solicitor would bust a bloody gut laughing if we tried to charge her with anything now. We were on thin ice as it was, without you screwing us over by going to see her."

"Do you think we could stick to the point?"

He looks over his shoulder at her, says gruffly, "That _is_ the point. You're telling me she's dangerously fixated, but you've effectively managed to tie my hands behind my back."

"So what do we do?"

"If she's a danger – to anyone – then the only option we have is to turn the whole thing over to CID. And believe me, if we do that they're going to have an absolute field day. Jesus, Grace, how could you be so stupid?"

Her instinct is to bite back at him for the blunt accusation, but she wisely manages to control the impulse. Instead, she says calmly, "She needs counselling and therapy, Boyd, not arresting and dragging into court to be publicly humiliated."

Boyd glowers at her. "Make up your damned mind. My choices are strictly limited thanks to you – either we drop the whole thing completely, or we pass it over to CID and deal with the consequences. So, come on, _Doctor_… what do you advise…?"

-oOo-

"Of course he's angry," Eve says simply as she navigates her way through the early-evening traffic. "Grace, he was worried sick when he turned up last night. He's trying to protect you, you know that."

"Locking Rachel up isn't the answer," Grace insists from the passenger seat. "This is a simple case of transference."

"She's projecting her feelings onto Boyd?"

Grace nods. "Essentially, yes. Initially as a father-figure, and then…"

"So in her mind you're, what? Competition?"

"It's probably a bit more complicated than that, but I suppose so. She's fixated on him."

"And how does Boyd feel about that?" Eve asks, evidently genuinely curious.

Grace shrugs a little. "Who knows? His idea of a solution is to arrest her and then scare her witless. He doesn't seem to be able to understand that it won't have any effect at all."

Eve is silent for a few moments. As she slows the car for an approaching junction, she asks, "Are you frightened?"

"Of Rachel? No. I don't think she's got it in her to be violent towards anyone."

"I don't know – scratching 'bitch' into your front door seems fairly aggressive to me."

"Mm. She really didn't want to admit to doing that."

Eve glances at her again. "Maybe it wasn't her – after all, we couldn't find any forensics."

"Oh, come on… Who else could have done it?"

"I suppose you're right," Eve says, but she doesn't sound convinced. Changing the subject, she says, "Are you sure you want to go home? You're more than welcome to stay with me again tonight."

"Thanks, but it's not necessary. Rachel's still in hospital, and I've got things to do."

"Will Boyd…?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Grace says wryly. "Either he'll turn up later, or he won't."

Eve asks, "It's serious, I take it? You and him?"

Grace nods reflectively and admits, "I think so. I don't expect you to understand, but we… get along. Despite our differences."

"Everyone knows that, Grace."

"Sometimes… things just work. It might seem like they shouldn't, but they do."

-oOo-

Releasing her seatbelt, Grace asks, "Cup of coffee?"

Eve glances at her watch. "Yeah, why not?"

They walk up the short path together, Grace pulling a face as she once again registers the damage to her front door. A job for the weekend, she thinks. Sand and repaint. If she looks helpless enough and he's feeling particularly charitable, there's a good chance Boyd will do it for her. He's surprisingly practical when it comes to such things, and easy enough to coerce with the right incentive. Unlocking the door, she stands back to let Eve precede her into the hall and then follows her in. There's a distinct chill in the air, reminding her that the heating's been off for over twenty-four hours. Telling Eve to go through into the living room, Grace heads into the kitchen and fiddles with the old-fashioned and erratic heating controls. She's eventually rewarded by the dull sound of the elderly boiler firing. Good.

Taking off her coat and hanging it up, she leaves her bag on the hall shelf and heads into the living room, saying, "Tea or coffee…?"

The lamp in the corner of the room is on, banishing the darkest of the shadows, and she spots Eve immediately. Her colleague's expression is frozen. She's standing in front of the fireplace, and the man behind her has one hand on her throat. The other is calmly holding the short, broad-bladed knife that is pressed against Eve's cheek – hard enough to cause an indentation, not hard enough to break the skin.

Tall, slim. Sallow. Dark-haired. Scruffy.

Grace recognises him instantly.

Alan Goddard.

He smiles. "Hello, Doctor. It's been a while."

-oOo-

Goddard is a predator. Not yet a killer – at least, not as far as Grace knows – but inherently extremely violent and extremely dangerous. She hasn't seen him since she gave evidence at his trial twelve years ago. Hasn't seen him since he was convicted for raping and beating six women in the South London area. Beating at least one of those women so badly that not even her closest relatives could initially identify her as she lay unconscious in hospital.

Her mind racing, Grace asks quietly, "What are you doing here, Alan?"

The smiles flickers on then off again. "Catching up with an old friend? You look surprised – didn't they tell you I'd been released?"

Boyd's voice echoes in her mind, _"Why the hell is Alan Goddard's file back on my desk?"_

Pieces are falling into place, and Grace doesn't like the pattern they're forming. Thirteen years ago, almost four years before the inception of the Met's Cold Case Unit, she was called in by the Home Office to consult on a previously stalled investigation that had just been handed over to the unpredictable but highly successful Chief Inspector Peter Boyd. Three months of painstaking work later, Boyd and his DS arrested and charged Alan Goddard with multiple counts of rape and assault. Grace remembers. She remembers very clearly. Goddard's crimes were meticulous and vicious, and throughout his questioning, remand and subsequent trial he remained cool, composed and utterly unrepentant.

He's a killer. Whether he has yet actually crossed that line or not, Goddard is a killer, and both he and Grace know it.

She says, "What do you want?"

"Where's Boyd?" Goddard asks, ignoring her question.

"Still at work," Grace tells him. "Alan – "

He talks over her. "So, come on, then; how long have you two been screwing?"

"Leave," Grace says quietly. "Let her go and leave."

"Why?" Goddard asks with a sneer. "Are you going to promise me you'll keep your mouth shut if I do?"

"No," Grace says, shaking her head. "And you wouldn't believe me if I did. But if you leave now – "

He grins at her, the expression feral and frightening. "I'll just get a slap on the wrist from my probation officer? I don't think so, do you? Besides, I've taken a bit of a shine to your friend here. Flexibility, that's the key. The ability to adapt to changing circumstances. You should approve of that, Doctor. Maybe I'll fuck both of you before your old man shows up and the party really gets started."

The words seem to snap Eve out of her frozen trance. Without warning, she starts to struggle fiercely, completely ignoring the blade pressed against her face. Goddard curses as she manages to bite him, but although he releases his grip, he only does so to backhand her hard across the face. Grace is moving, too, but as Eve staggers and falls, Goddard rounds on her, and suddenly his knife is against her throat. Grace freezes, just as Eve must have frozen, and Goddard grins at her again. "Do you remember what you said about me in your report, Doctor? Do you remember telling the jury how much hurting people turns me on?"

_Keep talking to him,_ a calm, experienced voice in her head says. _Keep talking to him, don't make it easy for him…_

He stinks. Stale sweat, unwashed clothes and much worse. It almost makes her gag, and her instinct is to pull sharply away from him, but the knife pressing against her flesh is a terrifyingly insistent presence. Grace doesn't doubt he will cut her, nor that he will enjoy it. A lot. Swallowing fear and bile, she says hoarsely, "You can still walk away from this, Alan."

Winding the fingers of his free hand roughly into her hair, he asks, "But why would I want to…?"

-oOo-

She knows exactly what he's capable of. Exactly how dark the thoughts spiralling behind the pale grey eyes are. The game is his, and she knows – with bitter certainty – that the only way they have any chance of survival is to play that game with him. He thrives on the pain and humiliation of his victims, and Grace gambles that while those needs are being fed his behaviour won't escalate – not rapidly, at least. She knows what's in his head, knows what his ultimate intentions are… and if they can prolong his lascivious anticipation, maybe, just maybe, they will be relatively safe until Boyd arrives.

_If_ Boyd arrives.

Because it's possible he's still so angry with her that he'll stay alone in his office for hours – and then go straight home without attempting to contact her.

And if he does…

Goddard makes her sit on the hard wooden floor, back against the wall, hands beneath her, palms upwards. Grace is not immobilised, of course, but they both know she can't move quickly. He stays between them and the door, ever-grinning as he holds a tight fistful of Eve's hair and keeps his knife firmly pressed against her neck. Any recalcitrance from either of them is only going to end one way – and Eve's face is already cut and bruised.

Into Eve's ear, he says, "Look at her face. She knows exactly what I'm going to do to you."

Eve's voice is cracked with fear, but there's defiance in the way she says, "So what are you waiting for? What's the matter? Can't get it up?"

Grace catches her breath, but Goddard just laughs. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should just get on and screw you while we're waiting for the Chief Inspector. After all, you're surplus to requirements. What do you think? Shall I screw you and cut your throat before he gets here?"

_Peter…_ Grace thinks desperately, willing the sound of a key in the lock to echo through the hallway beyond.

Nothing. No key in the lock. No Boyd.

She says desperately, "Alan, listen to me – if you do this, you'll go back to prison for the rest of your life. Is that really what you want?"

"Shut up," he tells her languidly. "This was always going to happen. You can't stop it."

And then the house phone starts to ring.

-oOo-

"I'm sorry," the familiar baritone says, just the tiniest touch sheepish. "You're probably right about Rachel. Christ, with what she saw happen to her father, it's no wonder she's got a few issues, is it?"

Grace is staring straight at Goddard. The pointed tip of his knife is pressing firmly into the soft flesh just below Eve's ear. She wonders if Boyd will hear the unnatural note of forced calm in her voice as she asks, "Where are you?"

"Almost at the Blackwall Tunnel."

_Oh, God, no…_ "Aren't you coming over?"

The reply is a surprised, "I didn't think you'd appreciate it after this afternoon…"

Goddard's eyes are icily intelligent, and they watch. They watch very closely indeed.

There's perhaps one single chance. Holding Goddard's gaze, Grace says, "You should listen to Stella more often, Peter. Of course I want you to come over."

Peter Boyd is a great many things, but he isn't stupid. His reply is quiet and calm. "Rachel?"

Still staring at Goddard, she says, "No, I don't understand. How can those reports be more important than our relationship?"

She hears him exhale. "All right, I'm on my way. Sit tight until I get there."

"I know, I love you, too. 'Bye, Peter."

"Just… don't do anything stupid," Boyd says. There's a soft click on the line and then silence.

There's silence in the living room, too. A sharp, tense, dangerous silence.

Calmly, Grace says, "He's on his way."

-oOo-

Boyd does exactly what Grace expects him to do. He uses his own key and he walks straight into the nightmare, chin up, shoulders set square. If anything about the scene surprises him, he doesn't show it. He can't have failed to have noticed Eve's car, Grace realises, and maybe that's why he simply looks steadily at them both for a second or two before focusing all his attention on Goddard.

He does not roar. He speaks quietly, every word perfectly enunciated. "I'm too tired to fuck about with you, Goddard, so why don't I tell you just what's going to happen here. You're going to let go of Eve and then you're going put the knife down."

"And then?" Goddard asks, sounding strangely amenable.

"Then I'm going to arrest you."

"I see."

"There's something else you should know," Boyd says, just as quietly. "I have two armed officers already standing by outside, and SO19 are on their way."

Goddard shakes his head. "So? The way I see it, big man, I'm fucked whatever happens. It doesn't matter."

"Don't piss me about. Let her go and put the knife down."

"I don't think so. Why don't I just cut her throat right now, and then we can talk about who's going to die next – me, you, or Doctor Foley."

"I lied to you," Boyd says. "There's this thing I have. A certain… aversion… to carrying firearms. Only one of my officers is armed now."

And Grace knows. Somehow Grace knows.

Boyd reaches behind him, produces the heavy Glock automatic that must have been tucked into his waistband. The motion is smooth, unhurried. No panic, no anxiety. He's very calm and his aim is very steady.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Grace can't prevent herself from blurting out, "Boyd…"

"Release her and drop the knife," Boyd says.

Goddard laughs again. "Go on, then. Shoot me."

"Last chance."

"You haven't got the balls," Goddard says. "Too great a risk of collateral damage."

"There's something else you should know," Boyd says, his arm already dropping. "I don't give a fuck about collateral damage."

In the confined space of Grace's living room, the single gunshot is very loud. But nowhere near as loud as Eve's piercing scream as the bullet scores a deep, bloody gouge across her thigh before ploughing into Goddard's leg.

The gunshot echoes so deafeningly and for so long that none of the four hear Goddard's knife clatter down onto the wooden floor as he drops like a stone, cursing and grunting as he claws wildly at his bleeding leg.

What they do hear, moments later, is the sound of Spencer Jordan crashing in through the front door.

-oOo-

"And if it had been me?" Grace asks as they wait for news in the brightly-lit hospital corridor. "If it had been _me_ he was using as a human shield…?"

Boyd doesn't look at her. "It wasn't."

"But if it had been?"

He doesn't answer immediately, but when he does Grace doesn't doubt his sincerity. "I'd have shot him straight in the head, no questions asked."

The shiver that runs down her spine is brief but chilling. Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. She can't put the look on Boyd's face as he pulled the trigger out of her mind. Almost completely impassive save for the tiniest flicker of contempt. No hint of fear, fury or compassion – just flat calm, as if the risk of wounding Eve meant nothing at all to him. Nothing.

It doesn't sit well with her image of him. Tough, gruff, but kindly. Good-hearted beneath the brusqueness and the quick temper.

She says, "Boyd – "

"Leave it, Grace," he says, sounding intensely weary. "Just leave it, okay?"

Grace is about to challenge him when a short, stocky man in a dark suit walks up to them with, "Superintendent Boyd? I'm Chief Inspector Miller. I'm investigating the firearms incident earlier this evening…?"

She watches as they walk away together, and she realises that she's just too tired and too shocked to worry about what's going to happen next.

-oOo-

_Obsession_, Grace writes, and then she hesitates. It's been three weeks since Boyd shot Goddard in this very room, and she still shivers when she thinks about it. From upstairs she can hear the distant sound of drumming water, and in the background the radio is chattering softly to itself. Outside, it is cold and dark and quiet. It's a very ordinary evening in North London. She looks at the blank page in front of her and then starts writing again. Thoughts and ideas tumble out onto the page, forming themselves into questions and statements with no conscious intervention from her. Probably, her notes will end up with many, many other notes, placed carefully in a box in her spare room, ready to be excavated in the future. Or not.

She thinks about Rachel Cooper and Alan Goddard. She thinks about Boyd. Obsessive, all of them – about different things and for wildly different reasons. Love, revenge, justice.

It makes all of them potentially dangerous. One will receive therapy, one will go back to prison. The other…

Well, Grace isn't too sure what will happen to Boyd. The official inquiry is likely to find that he was both negligent and reckless, and if it does a formal reprimand will be the very least of his worries. Eve might be remarkably phlegmatic about what has actually turned out to be a relatively minor injury, but the FSS and the Home Office are both baying for his blood… and he hasn't got many supporters at New Scotland Yard, either.

The sound of him padding up quietly behind her makes Grace start, but yes, it's quiet upstairs now – the shower's no longer running. She turns in her chair, smiling a little despite her increasingly gloomy thoughts. He looks damp, his skin faintly flushed and his hair darker than usual where it's wetly slicked back. At some nebulous point in the recent past a dark towelling bathroom appeared on the hook on the back of the bathroom door, and now it's wrapped around him, firmly tied at the waist.

His smile lights in response to hers, hesitant and very gentle. He drops a hand on her shoulder, leans down to kiss the top of her head. "What are you up to?"

"It doesn't matter," Grace says, and suddenly it doesn't. She stands up, puts her arms around his neck and kisses him deeply and unselfconsciously, amused by the touch of answering surprise she detects in him. She says, "Let's go to bed."

She suspects that if he had to, Boyd would die for her. What she doesn't know is whether he would actually kill for her.

It's something Grace never wants to find out.

_- the end -_


End file.
